


Something To Remember

by TwixMix13 (Tacopony)



Series: A Promise [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Heartache, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Poor Dorian, Rough Kissing, So much angst, Trespasser DLC, Trespasser Spoilers, a very upset noblewoman, me taking liberties with characters that aren't mine, public embarrassment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5682415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tacopony/pseuds/TwixMix13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of events in which Lavellan is pissed that Dorian is leaving for Tevinter—again, getting back at him in the best way possible, with only one noble’s wig catching fire in the process. Set during the early events of Trespasser at the Winter Palace, but after Lavellan first steps through the Eluvian.  Loosely based on/inspired by my fave pavellan comic of sanzosin‘s (sanzosin@tumblr)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something To Remember

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me @ justjokering.tumblr.com :)

_A jungle of gold lion statues crouching upon pure white Orlesian stone and marble, watching, waiting, listening to nobles chat amongst themselves, the running water of the baths nearly drowning them out._

 ——————————————————————————————————————————————

Everything was starting to build up; the emotions, the heartache, the stress of the exalted council. Dorian had spent a month away in Tevinter, Lavellan had barely coped and now he wants to return? For _good?_ The thought made his heart sink into his stomach, forming a pit akin to that of ripe, red elderberries. He understood Dorian’s desire to go, to restore the reputation of his homeland; that was one of the many things he loved about him—his devotion to his country. Lavellan respected his choice, but that knowledge didn’t make it any easier, not by a mile. He hid it well behind dry humor and an often forceful, angry tone, but there was an ache deep in his bones he couldn’t quite shake.

Dorian had resigned to a well-crafted, yet oddly uncomfortable Orlesian chair when Lavellan began walking up behind him, wanting to speak with him about the future. He stopped for a moment as a devious smile crept across his face, a _marvelous_ idea popping into his head. The rushing water of the bath house muted his footsteps as he crept ever so slowly behind the magister. If Dorian was going to leave, Lavellan was certainly going to give him something to remember him by.

It seemed Master Pavus was in a world of his own, staring blankly up at the gilded lions that seemed to return his gaze. He could think of many ways to do it better considering it was hardly up to the quality in Tevinter. But then again, not much these days was. That’s why he had to go back- he kept telling himself; not simply to restore what once was, but to improve, to build, to make it better. It could never be as it was before. He had thought of Lavellan often during his time away, despite the many difficulties he faced, his father’s assassination being one of the more prominent. Dorian wished he could have had his amatus at his side during that time. To hear his voice. To feel the warmth radiate from him. To—

Spindly fingers latched onto his shoulders slowly grasping harder and harder as a breathless, creaky voice wisped its way into his ear: _“Amatusss.”_

“Fasta vass!” Dorian shouted as he shot upright and spun around faster than he knew he could. Faster than Lavellan _thought_ he would, his eyes widening comically as the magister threw a fireball in his direction, not 2 feet away from his face.

He threw himself to the left as it whizzed by, singeing the tips of his hair on his right side, and fell to the ground behind the cabriole. He watched as the fireball made its way across the Winter Palace, seemingly in slow motion. The look on Dorian’s face was nothing short of horrified shock as it hit an Orlesian noblewoman’s extravagant wig, smoking subtly at first and then bursting into flames. The nobles she was trying to impress gasped audibly, yelling “Oh dear— someone get her a new wig!” They waved at the fire with their hands, finally pushing her head first into the fountain, fearful she may set their own silk and velveteen frocks aflame.

Most of the other nobles completely ignored the events that were taking place in the square, busy in their own politics, however Dorian felt all eyes on him as the woman fished herself out of the water, soaked from her bosom up, holding her arms away from her expensive, jewel covered gown as a waterfall cascaded off them.

The nobles nearby stood at least 5 feet from her as if she had the plague. They slowly turned their gaze, following the direction the fiery sphere would have originated from.

Dorian just stood there, frozen, a hand covering his mouth as he gazed back at them, fear ripping through him at the implications this would cause. Two guards approached the nobles offering assistance, stealing their attention for the moment. Dorian broke out of his haze when he heard an incredibly odd sound rising in volume, akin to that of an inebriated chicken choking. He turned the corner to find Lavellan curled into a fetal position behind the cabriole, hugging himself, rolling, _shaking_ , tears streaming down his face as he tried to contain himself.

Lavellan wheezed, looked up through wet eyes to find a massive shadow looming over him, blotting out the sun. The huge grin on his face remained as he was grabbed painfully at the collar of his Winter Palace attire and hoisted up to meet Dorian’s fiery gaze, an inferno in those hazel eyes—he could have sworn he saw smoke wafting from his head and shoulders.

Lavellan couldn’t take it; he was held up solely by the magister’s harsh grip, his knees weak with laughter, eyes sewn tightly shut as he continued to shake. He bit his lip in an attempt to pull himself together, but the look on Dorian’s face when he—

Lavellan burst out, cackling uncontrollably as he threw a hand over his face.

Dorian looked like he was about to burst into flames, which was highly unlikely considering he cared more about his hair than he did his own life. Hushed whispers filled the air as the nobles turned their attention to the scene laid out before them: the Inquisitor’s laughter overwhelming the space around them and the Tevinter ambassador hunching over him, holding his collar in a vice like grip.

Dorian acted quickly, yanking up Lavellan onto his feet, and _persuasively_ pushing him towards a secluded area of the Winter Palace. There was a door to his left, a sky blue sash tied across it. He ripped it away without a second thought, throwing open the door to find a decent sized storage room, tossing the elf inside, and locking it behind him.

With his levity fading, Lavellan rubbed his eyes and looked around as they adjusted to the dim light inside the closet, illuminated only by a moderately sized crack in the ceiling and the sun shining in the right place. Flour and rice sacks littered the sides and floor of the room with one having fallen over, spilling a small amount of rice onto the smooth stone. Dusty shelves held old books and jars of dried plants, primarily felandaris and arbor’s blessing. A royal elfroot plant poked up through a crack in the rock, stretching towards the sunlight and thriving against all odds.

His smile fell as he began to feel a weight settle upon him. While the thought that it could hurt Dorian’s reputation was not something he wanted—at all, it was also something he hadn’t thought about. Humor was just how he coped through the difficult times and dangerous situations, and at the moment, he didn’t care about the consequences. Lavellan turned to look at Dorian, who had braced himself against the door, taking deep breaths.

“Have you gone completely mad?!” he shouted as he spun around to face the Inquisitor. Lavellan lurched forward, taking his head in a firm grip as he smashed their lips together painfully. Dorian staggered backwards, caught completely off-guard, emitting an audible _thud_ as he hit the wood of the door.

Outside, the two palace guards were heading to investigate the area the nobles pointed them to as they heard the ruckus. They began making their way curiously towards the closet that was supposedly off-limits when Vivienne side-stepped in front of them, gown and pointed headdress glistening brightly in the sunlight. “Trust me, my dears,” she began. “It’s best to leave them to sort it out on their own.” Her smile was friendly, but her overall aura radiated authority. The guards, nodded hesitantly and took their leave, knowing exactly who Madame De Fer was, not looking back as they talked amongst themselves.

The expression on Lavellan’s face was pained, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. With the initial shock fading, Dorian relaxed into the kiss, the chasteness of it causing a tightness in his chest. The anger seeped from him as he took the elf’s head in his hands, ran his fingers through silky hair, and frowned, noticing for the first time how much it had truly grown, how long it had been since they were together, and how much Lavellan was shaking. The elf loosened his grip, broke the kiss, breathing deeply as their foreheads met in an embrace. His eyes were filled with tears, but he wasn’t laughing this time. Dorian spoke softly, wrapping his arms around him, “What is this about?”

“Ir abelas ma’arlath.” Lavellan chuckled emptily, a crooked smile stretching across his face, his eyes holding none of the mirth they had before. “I don’t know what came over me.”

The magister forced him to meet his gaze. There was no humor in that smile, only sorrow. He sighed, wiped away the tear tracks on his cheeks with his thumbs. “Now now, none of that.” Dorian smiled, gently caressing him, fingers dancing over his skin. “You wanted my attention, and now you’ve got it. Tell me what you want.”

Lavellan pulled him into a tight embrace, his chin resting heavily on his shoulder. “I _know_ you have to go back,” he said, his voice slightly muffled, strained. “I just thought it would be easier than _this_.”

Dorian sighed once more, held him closer. “Oh amatus...” He pulled back, kissing the top of his head, his heart feeling as if it could shatter at any moment. “We may not always be together, but we will never be apart. I promise.”

Lavellan smiled at that, his worst fears muted by the bittersweet ache in his heart. “A promise huh? Don’t think I’ll forget.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated! This will be my second published work. :)
> 
> Translations:  
> "Fasta vass" — A swear word, essentially "Holy fuck" in this context  
> "Ir abelas ma’arlath" — "I'm sorry my love"


End file.
